


Bedtime Story

by Evilawyer



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-22
Updated: 2008-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilawyer/pseuds/Evilawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has moments of contentment. He hopes this is one for the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime Story

**Author's Note:**

> Originally part 2a of post-Series 4 AU story in which the Master returned without the drums and the Doctor and he tried to make a go of it. This installment and its alternate point of view companion piece were inspired by the final story of Classic Who, "Survival".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Master: It seems we must always meet again.

Doctor: They do say opposites attract.

     --- _Survival_ by Rona Munro  
\-----  
Irate Woman: Do you hear that racket? Do you hear it? Flipping cat fights all hours of the day.

Doctor: I think you'll find things quieting down now.

Irate Woman: So you say. Flipping cats. It's the owners I blame. They want the pet, right. They want the animal, but do they keep it under control?

Doctor: Well, we try.

     --- _Survival_ by Rona Munro

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you really think it's that we're opposites?”

The Doctor's body jerks as the Master's voice jerks his mind back into wakefulness. “What?”

“I asked you once why we meet each other over and over and you told me it's because opposites attract. Remember?” 

“No,” the Doctor groans out as he rolls over onto his right side so that his back is to the Master. He closes his eyes.

The Master sits up and leans over the Doctor. His bare chest touches the Doctor's bare arm and shoulder as he looks down at the side of the Doctor's face. “But do you think that's all it is? That we're opposites?”

The Doctor was never one for engaging in post-coital relationship dissections. He wonders when the Master started doing so. “Trying to sleep here. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm completely shagged out.”

The Master continues to peer down at the Doctor. His eyes are closed so he doesn't see the Master, but the Doctor can feel the Master staring at him, searching for something from him that he's certain he can't possibly deliver in his exhausted state.  The Doctor half-expects the Master to start triumphantly gloating or to launch into a loud and pointless diatribe.  Instead, the Master says “You always do that.” He straightens up so that he's not leaning over the Doctor, not even looking at him. “It's no wonder I think it's more satisfying to be out there taking over galaxies than to be here with you.”

" _Trying_ to take over galaxies, you mean. And you seemed pretty satisfied with me a minute ago," the Doctor snorts. He opens his eyes. “Hang on. What do you mean I 'always do that'?”

"Avoid talking about us. What we are.”

“What we are now,” the Doctor says as he punches his pillow and resettles himself for maximum sleeping comfort, “besides trying to sleep, are the last two Time Lords in existence.”

“So you say.” The Master turns and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He reaches down to the floor for his clothes.

The Doctor rolls over half-way onto his back and looks at the Master. He reaches over and puts his left hand on the Master's left shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“Wherever I feel like,” the Master spits out as he shrugs away from the Doctor's touch. “You don't own me.”

The Doctor lets his hand drop and looks up at the ceiling. “Jackie assumed different once.”

The Master turns to look over his shoulder irately. “What the hell are you talking about? Who's Jackie?”

“Rose's Mum.

“Ah, the celestial Rose Tyler. You know, you were in danger of going for a whole twenty-four hours without extolling her virtues, but it looks like you're about to pull it out. Congratulations on being so predictable.”

“You leave Rose out of this,” the Doctor says, surprising himself with the amount of menace that resonates in his tone. “I've done her enough harm without you starting in on her.”

“Ooh, there you go, getting all protective. I'd forgotten how you always do that with people you love.” The Master starts to thread his right hand through the arm of his shirt.  He stops when the Doctor runs a warm, flat hand down the length of his spine. He drops the shirt and his hands to his lap and sucks in a breath. “Don't do that.”

“What's wrong,” the Doctor asks quietly as he leaves his hand on the small of the Master's back. The Master shakes his head twice. The Doctor can't tell if that head shake means _No, nothing's wrong_ or _No, I'm not going to tell you_. He'd try looking into the Master's mind for a clue if he didn't already know that the Master is sealed off tight. He always is. “Tell me. I wanna know.”

The Master barks a single bitter and unassuaged laugh. “That sounds so sincere I'm certain you're lying.” The Master starts to put his hand through his sleeve again. “There's nothing wrong that a good long stretch away from you won't cure. I think this short visit's been long enough.”

In one fluid motion, the Doctor rolls onto his chest, pushes himself to his knees and knee-walks the short distance to the Master until his chest is flush with the Master's back. “I mean it. Come on,” he encourages as he reaches around the Master and takes the shirt from his hands. He rests his hands on the Master's abdomen and whispers “Tell me, Master,” into the Master's ear.

A long shudder runs through the Master's body, but he doesn't speak; he doesn't make any sound at all. The Doctor supposes he'll have to be satisfied with the physical response. For the time being, anyway.

Smoothing his left hand up the Master's chest so that it rests over the Master's right heart, the Doctor pulls the Master back into him. He presses a kiss to the back of the Master's neck. “It was a long time ago. Just after we'd fought on the Cheetah planet.” He wraps his arms tighter around the Master and shifts back, bringing the Master with him, until he's lying down on his left side with the Master in his arms, his right hand still resting on the Master's belly. The Master's body relaxes as he slides his right palm down the Doctor's right forearm until it comes to rest on the back of the Doctor's right hand. The Doctor smiles into the Master's hair when it occurs to him that he's spooning the Master. He grins like a loon when it hits him that the Master likes it.

“And there was Jackie,” he soon continues because he doesn't want to ruin the moment by saying or doing something sappy. “She was younger then, mind you. But when I saw her in her flat right after I first met Rose, I could tell right away that it'd been her.” The Doctor lets his unfocused stare drift over the top of the Master's head to the middle-distance on the other side of the Master's body. “She looked so young. Rose couldn't have been more than a toddler then.” He smiles in delight. “She was probably somewhere nearby, now that I think about it.  All chubby and round, running around like a little terror.” He bends his neck to rest his forehead against the back of the Master's head and sighs. “Aww, I'll bet she was the cutest baby. I wish I'd seen her.”

The Doctor spends a second envying Jack's having watched Rose grow up before his voiced wish is replaced by a mental wish that he could kick himself. He hadn't noticed the wistfulness that crept into his voice as he spoke, but he does notice how the Master removes his hand from his own. He notices how something in the Master seems to deflate as he puts the hand he's taken back under his left cheek like a pillow. Beyond that, the Master doesn't move, but his voice is uninvitingly even as he prompts, “Go ahead. Tell me your boring bedtime story.”

The Doctor runs his right hand down the Master's right upper arm, trying to make it seem like the gesture isn't the apology it is. He's surprised to find that the skin under his hand is cold. His own body is still flushed with the heat of their earlier fucking, the heat he felt as the Master took him, but the Master is already growing cold in the places they aren't touching.

“Well,” he starts his story again as the Master has ordered; to not do so would only make things worse. He clears his throat. “There I was, just zapped back to Earth, still shouting at you, trying to convince you to not fight, and up walks Jackie. Yelling and looking like she was ready to haul off and slap me. Even then.” He takes a chance and spreads kisses across the back of the Master's shoulders. He's glad when the Master doesn't pull away.

“What for?” The Master's voice is calm but not content. Never content.

“Cats. Her neighborhood had been taken over by noisy cats, apparently. She didn't think that the cat owners took proper care of their pets.”

“And that had what to do with you?”

“Nothing.” The Doctor pulls his left arm out from under the Master's body and props himself upright on his left hand. “Except that I was shouting to you.” He takes hold of the Master's right shoulder with his right hand and gently nudges the Master onto his back, then leans down to kiss his mouth just as gently.

The Doctor props himself up on his left hand again while he strokes his right hand from the Master's left cheek to his left temple and into his hair. The Master exhales a soft sigh and closes his eyes. He leans into the Doctor's hand and rubs against it very much like a cat. When the Doctor shifts downward, the Master opens his eyes to silently watch the Doctor kiss a line down his chest to just above his navel.

The Doctor looks back up the Master's body to his face. “She complained about the owners wanting the cats but not bothering to keep them under control.” The Doctor smirks. “If she'd have met you, she'd have known what an impossible thing controlling you has always been.” He chuckles lazily and prepares to return to his downward progress.

“I'm not your pet,” the Master bristles as he moves to sit up, “and you don't control me.”

“No,” the Doctor agrees in the negative as he rises up to meet the Master before he can sit up all the way. He presses the Master back to the mattress, covers him with his own body and kisses him silent as he runs his hands over the Master's body wherever he can reach. He keeps on kissing and stroking until the Master kisses him back. “But we are always pulled together,” he says when he breaks away. “We always meet again, just like you said then. We can't ever completely do without each other.” He sits up to straddle the Master so he can reach down and run a single finger lightly up the underside of the Master's cock from root to tip. It's already hard, and it twitches when he strokes it. It does the Doctor's ego no end of good that this is so.

The Master lifts his head and looks down to where the Doctor's hand lingers. “You think so,” he asks, his voice oddly bland considering how expressively his body speaks, as he drops his head back to the pillow.

“I know so,” the Doctor says as he lowers himself back down. He keeps his full weight off the Master by staying propped up on his knees and forearms a bit. “God, even Ace knew. She asked me why you were still around even though you were safe from the Cheetah people. I told her it was malice. Close your eyes.” The Doctor kisses the Master's eyelids when the Master complies. “Do you know what she said?” The Master, eyes still closed, shakes his head. “She said 'It's not just malice.'”

The Master opens his eyes. They're so dark and tempting that the Doctor stops talking and stares into them. “And what did you tell her,” the Master asks throatily after a moment.

“A lie.” The Doctor stretches his legs out between the Master's legs, separating them so his lower body is lying between the Master's thighs. “Well, I didn't know it was a lie at the time. I told her all you were interested in was survival. I told her you were trying to destroy me.”

The Master's brow contracts briefly in puzzlement before smoothing out again.  “How was that a lie?”

“Because you always find your way to me even when it's dangerous or when it could kill you. And because you never have destroyed me. Not permanently anyway. And you never will.” The Doctor reaches down with both hands and wraps them under the Master's knees. He pulls the Master's legs up until he can hook them over his elbows. He doesn't need to lift the Master's legs any higher to spread the Master open enough. “Is this okay?” The Doctor figures that it's best to ask now rather than assume. It's been a long, long while since he topped Koschei and the Master hasn't shown any inclination to bottom so far. The Master's tastes might have changed with age.

The Master looks at the Doctor through half-lidded eyes. “Mm-hmm,” he says quietly as he shifts so that they're both more comfortable. “I put the lube over there,” he gestures with his head toward the table on his side of the bed. “Can you reach it?”

“Yeah.” The Doctor releases the Master's legs and reaches over to grab the jar. The Master doesn't drop his legs to the bed, but holds them bent and raised and ready for the Doctor. The Doctor settles himself to a kneeling position between them. He spreads his own knees apart, leans back on his calves and positions the Master's legs over his thighs so that they wrap around him. As he slicks the lube into the Master, he watches for the expressions that cross the Master's face. 

The Master is still. His face betrays nothing in the way of emotion as he looks at the Doctor. And he's quiet. He's not moaning. He's not hissing. He's not making any sound that the Doctor associates with physical pleasure. The Master is so very quiet that the Doctor wonders if he's doing something wrong.

But as the Doctor continues to work him open with one, two, three fingers, the Master's eyes flutter shut and his head falls slightly to the side. His mouth falls open a little, just enough for the Doctor to see a small space between his lips, and he draws in an audible breath. It's a subtle reaction. The Doctor would have probably missed it entirely if he hadn't been watching for something, anything. It isn't dramatic and it isn't intense, but it still tells the Doctor that the Master has been waiting for this for lifetimes.

“You seem ready,” he tells the Master when it seems to him that the Master is. He's ready himself. He puts the lube aside and stretches out to put his hands flat on the mattress to either side of the Master's head. “Are you ready?”

The Master turns his head back to look at the Doctor and nods, still silent. It isn't right, all this silence. Not from the Master, who, mad or sane, always makes his presence heard and felt. The Doctor thinks how he'll end that silence as he lowers himself down to press the tip of his cock against the Master's entrance. He inches into the Master and thinks how he'll break through the Master's stoic demeanor, how he'll make the Master feel so good that the Master can't help but writhe and yowl and claw at his back as he propels them both forward in a flaming rush. He'll make the Master satisfied and warm and sleepy and content. No, not content. Happy. All this, he thinks as pushes all the way into the Master. He wants to do all this. And so he will.

From the moment he rolled the Master over and kissed him until now, the Doctor hasn't really thought much about anything but placating the Master, and if through pleasure, then sobeit. Now, fully sheathed in the Master's tight heat, he finds the sensation more erotic than he'd expected. He pumps his hips deep, withdrawing as far as he dares before making the long, slow slide back into the Master, willing him to feel the exquisite sensation the motion brings. But the Master's reserve remains in place as the Doctor moves in and out of the Master's body, slowly at first but then faster and stronger as his own excitement grows. The few sighs and gasps the Master lets out aren't enough, nor is the way he lets his eyes drift shut. The Doctor wants more from him.

The Doctor lets his weight rest on his left forearm so that he can move his right hand down to grip the Master's cock. He finds the Master's hand already there, stroking in time to the Doctor's thrusts. It's like an aphrodisiac, it is, knowing that the Master wants this so much that he's handling himself like some randy kid. As hard as the Doctor's own cock already is, it feels like it turns into an iron hammer when he realizes how much the Master wants this.

But the Master, even now, is far too quiet, far too still. He's breathing harder and shallower now, but that could just be because of the way the Doctor crushes his body with his own as he drives into the him. “More” the Doctor's mind shouts as he ratchets himself into the Master, rolling the head of his cock over the Master's prostate over and over and fingering the Master's perineum until he hears, or thinks he hears, a sharp, short “ah” escape the Master's now-open lips. It's a sign that the Master is enjoying this. The Doctor is sure it is. He thinks it is. He doesn't know. He doesn't even know if he really heard it. It's all so maddening and worrisome and he's going to explode any second without knowing if this is any good at all for the Master. He can't not know. He really shouldn't ask. “Is this all right?” He gasps the question out as he pivots into the Master. “Does it feel good?”

It's just a single word the Master says in response. Whispers it, really, but the Doctor hears it clearly. The Doctor doesn't want to come first. He wants to wait. He wants to feel the Master's body twist against him in ecstasy first. He wants to see bliss on the Master's face and hear it in his voice first. But he's already on the brink and can't hold back when the Master shakily whispers “Yes.” He shoots into the Master, the long moan he wants to pull from the Master coming out of his own mouth instead.

When the Doctor becomes fully aware again, the first thing he's aware of is the Master under him. The Master's skin is flushed, his eyes are squeezed shut and he's biting at his lower lip to keep himself quiet as he works his own cock. The Doctor begins to piston his hips again, slow and deep; the Master silently pushes back against every thrust. A shallow sorrow runs through the Doctor's mind as he wishes the Master would be more free. The sight of the Master thrashing in pleasure and crying out in wild abandon would be beautiful, he thinks. But then he thinks, as he watches the Master silently shudder on the verge of orgasm, that there is beauty, too, in the Master's ironclad control. The phrase master of himself passes through the Doctor's mind. “Master.” He realizes he's spoken the last out loud when the Master's eyes fly open and he looks at the Doctor with such lust and something else the Doctor can't place before squeezing them shut again. Then the Master's breath hitches in rhythm to his cock as it pulses ropes of ejaculate one, two, three times onto his stomach and chest and over his fingers. 

The Doctor watches as the Master twitches with aftershocks, then as he lies still with his eyes closed. He opens his eyes to the Doctor's smile. When he returns it with a small, closed-mouth smile of his own, the Doctor's smile gets wider. What's not to smile about when the Master is sated and happy?

And yet, something is missing.

It hasn't escaped the Doctor's attention that the Master hasn't touched him once since his Rose faux pas. Time to change that. He withdraws from the Master and shifts back to straddle him again. He reaches for the Master's right wrist with his left hand and lifts the Master's hand gently away from its loose grip around the Master's cock. He lifts it to his mouth, but before he presses the Master's fingers to his lips, before he takes the Master's fingers into his mouth to lap the Master's come off of them, the Master clenches his hand closed and yanks his fist back several inches from the Doctor's face, the Doctor still holding his wrist.

The Doctor silently stares at their hands with what he hopes is a blank expression as he swallows down disappointment and embarrassment. He tries but fails to think of something funny or lighthearted to say --- anything to say, really --- so he's relieved when the Master rumbles “It's just that I'm all slimy” in a tired voice that says he could sleep for days. The Doctor thinks he hears an apology in the Master's voice. He isn't sure. 

“We'll soon fix that,” the Doctor says as jauntily as he can manage. “Wait.” He lays the Master's hand, palm up, on the mattress. “Wait here, all right?” He doesn't move until the Master nods in agreement.

The Doctor rises and goes to retrieve a washcloth from the nearest bathroom. He curses the length of time it takes for the water from the sink to get nice and warm so he can wet the cloth. The Master has promised to wait, but the Doctor can't help but feel a sense of urgency. Warm, wet cloth in hand, he hurries back to the Master.

And discovers that there was no need to be anxious when he finds the Master right where he left him, dozing lightly. Waiting for him to return. The Doctor kneels beside him and softly wipes his chest and stomach with the cloth, then his cock. He hesitates for just a moment before parting the Master's legs and running the cloth over the Master's arsehole to wash away the smears of his own jism there. When he's done that, the Doctor turns the cloth, picks up the Master's right hand and gently cleans the fingers and palm. The Master's awake now, watching him. He's not protesting this grooming, which the Doctor takes as a good sign. 

The Doctor lays the washcloth aside and stretches out on his left side next to the Master, lying down as close as he dares to face him. He doesn't really know what the Master's thinking or feeling, he knows that now. He'd like to know, but he doesn't, which means getting too close to the Master could easily result in the Master moving away. But the Master doesn't. He even rolls onto his right side to face the Doctor. When the Doctor makes a little gesture with his free arm, one that could be interpreted as an effort to pop the pain out of an achy shoulder joint as easily as an invitation to be held, the Master moves closer. Though he still doesn't really touch the Doctor with his hands, he trundles the Doctor over with own body until the Doctor is supine and half-covered by the Master. The Doctor is more than happy to roll with it, especially when the Master lays his head against the Doctor's chest.

Everyone has moments of contentment. He hopes this is one for the Master. He knows better than to ask if it is. If it is, it's one he's given the Master, or at least one he's helped the Master get for himself, and that makes him feel something he can't quite describe in words. It feels, he thinks, a little like how saving the Master feels. It's that good. Then he remembers that he's never saved the Master. He's saved plenty of people and planets. Oh, and galaxies. Mustn't forget the galaxies. He's saved the whole damned universe but never the Master. Not once. He stops trying to define whatever it is he's feeling.

But if the Master isn't content, then at least he's satisfied; of that, the Doctor is certain. He's sleepy, so sleepy that his head keeps bobbing and he startles every few moments as he struggles to stay awake. And his body, his whole body from his toes to his fingertips, is so very warm. All of these things are good. All of these things are brilliant. But all of these things, even taken together, are nowhere near everything the Doctor wants the Master to be. The Doctor supposes he'll have to be satisfied with the physical response. Forever, maybe.

The Master stirs and picks his head up off of the Doctor's chest. The Doctor frets that the Master will move off of him. Just as the Doctor is getting ready to put both arms around the Master to hold him in place, the Master lays his head back down. The little tension left in his muscles flows out of them and he lets himself weigh heavy on the Doctor.

“There now,” the Doctor sighs as he wraps his arms around the Master's body even though there's no need to do so. “Isn't being here all warm and sleepy with me better than throwing on your clothes and storming out into the cold night in a huff?”

“It's morning,” the Master rasps.

“You know what I mean,” the Doctor fondly chides.

The Master draws in a deep breath, then lets it all out in one long sigh. “So this is how you're going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Control me. Save the universe by fucking me so soundly every morning, noon and night that the only thing I can do is lie here like the world's most lethargic cat, no time or energy to escape and launch my evil plots?”

“Something objectionable about that plan?”

“Not really. As an obedience training method, it has a certain appeal. It buggers your theory on relationships all to hell, though.”

“How so?”

“It's so very manipulative.” The Master actually has the nerve to let a hint of distaste color his voice. “If you're willing to use our bodies this way, I'd say there's a fair bit of me inside of you. Figuratively speaking at the moment, of course. We'll see how I feel in a little while. So opposites don't attract.”

“Oh, I don't know,” the Doctor says musingly. “I think it isn't so much that opposites attract as it is that likes don't always repel.”

“That makes absolutely no sense. None at all.” The Master rolls off the Doctor and onto his left side. He's facing away from the Doctor, but the Doctor isn't worried that he's upset or getting ready to leave. He knows from the way the Master pushes himself back to lie up against him that the Master has no plans to go anywhere. Not at the moment, and the moment is all that matters.

“Doesn't have to,” the Doctor says as he turns onto his left side and wraps his right arm around the Master. They'll be more comfortable this way, the Doctor reckons. The Master almost immediately proves him right by falling asleep --- the Doctor can tell he's asleep by the slow and even way he breathes. Spooning again. And the Master still likes it. “There's a good cat,” the Doctor says approvingly and nuzzles the back of the Master's head. He scoots closer to the Master and closes his eyes.


End file.
